Leaving
by Natasha371
Summary: Two versions of a scene from Bubblegum Crisis, rewritten from Sylia and Priss' perspectives.
1. Default Chapter

Leaving  
  
Priss:   
You walk in. Written on your face are determination and a   
trace of hope. It is misplaced and as soon as you see me you   
realize that. For some reason this makes me a little sad. I   
avert my eyes from your face. They trail down to your neck   
and I see a pearl necklace. Its absurdity strikes me as   
funny. I do not laugh. You bend down, picking up the   
crumpled poster. Seemingly unconscious of my presence, you   
carefully smooth it, and then hold it out towards me. I am   
caught by the delicacy of your hands, the paleness of them   
against the brightness of the paper. It does not fit. You   
do not fit. I whip around quickly, hands pressed against   
cold metal. The solidity is reassuring, but every muscle in   
my body remains tight. I can still see your face in my minds   
eye. What would happen now, if you were to move a step   
closer, so that I could feel the heat of your body, the soft   
warmth of your breath? What would happen if you were to   
reach out and touch me? I do not know. But, in any case,   
you don't. You walk out.   
  
Sylia:  
I turn off the ignition. I cannot imagine why I have never   
been here before. Where you live has always been something   
of an abstraction for me. An address, a house, nothing more.  
Except it is not a house. I have seen worse places before,   
I suppose; it's just that you don't live in them. I open the   
door to your trailer. It is not locked. It does not have a   
lock. Your back is to me. You are staring blankly at the   
wall, but as you hear me enter you turn around, slowly,   
reluctantly. My shoe hits something on the floor. It is a   
wad of paper. On the wall, I can still see the tape and a few   
raggedly torn corners attached to it. I recognize it as a   
poster from your first concert. I am surprised you still   
have it. I am surprised that you don't want to have   
it any more. I offer it to you. I would urge you to take   
it, but that would mean I cared. I would beg you to take it,   
but that would be undignified. Your eyes widen, vulnerable.   
For an instant I think, maybe...You turn away from me. Your   
eyelids droop closed, lashes forming a soft fringe of brown   
against your cheek. It is as if you are too tired, too   
wearied by sadness to keep them open. But you do open   
them, and stare fixedly at the ground. I reach out for you,   
stroking a finger against your cheek. But only in my mind.   
I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or simply too   
afraid. The word 'eleven' meanders across my mind, but   
cannot find a connection. Perhaps I do not want it to. Back   
outside the air is crisp and fresh, but all I notice is how   
cold it is. 


	2. Leaving v2

Leaving  
v. 2.0  
  
Priss  
The bag makes a soft clicking sound as I zip it, then look up   
to see if I have forgotten anything. A scan reveals a bed, a   
fridge...none of them useful for someone who intends to run   
far, far away. None of them conductive to reckless   
speed and sleepless nights in cheap hotels. But on the   
almost bare walls, I spot a poster. No. The poster. The   
first time anyone had deemed me important enough to advertise   
that I was playing at their club. Probably just thought that  
a hot looking babe would boost attendance, but I...I had   
been elated, as excited as a girl with a reputation to keep   
could be.   
  
A lump rises suddenly in my throat: a little sad but mostly   
anger at this sudden stranger. How dare she be so happy?  
Without thinking my hand jerks out. It makes a satisfying   
ripping sound as it tears from the wall and its not until I   
turn around to throw the now crumpled paper to the floor that   
I notice you. My pounding heart breaks the lump as I wonder   
how much of my little performance you've just witnessed. Not  
much, thankfully. Your eyes flicker to the wall, then to me,   
then back to the wall again. I lean back against my bike and   
fold my arms across my chest, defiant, angry, and scared.  
  
You bend down, a careful little motion in order not to muss   
your skirt. A choked laugh gets caught just behind my teeth,   
at how out of place you are, how far above this. Perfectly   
manicured nails, sensible heels, hair in one of those cuts   
always described as classic, and, of all things, a pearl   
necklace.   
  
This does make me laugh, a harsh one-syllable cry with a   
rasping edge of hysteria, almost repeated when I realize that   
you do not share my sense of absurdity. It is cut off when I   
see you pick up the poster, soft hands gentle, but with a   
firmness that makes me tense as much as if you ran them   
across me, smoothed my troubled conscious instead of that   
battered scrap. You look up and I drop my arms behind me,   
pushing down hard for support. A piercing gaze I could   
handle, would expect. But for once you look human, tired   
and lonely and hoping. You extend the paper towards me,   
silently. I refuse to look at it, concentrating instead on   
your face, on your tongue running over your lips,   
on small white teeth biting down.   
  
A few moments and I will lose my resolve.   
  
A few moments and I will stay, just because of you.   
  
It is not a feeling I am comfortable with. I spin   
around, hands pressing against the cool metal. "I'm sorry,   
Sylia." The words tumble out, struggling to fill the gaping   
wound of silence. "I just can't..." Splashes of hot, salty   
water briefly warm my hand, and my shoulders begin to shake.   
I have cried more this week than all the rest of my life   
combined. Dear God, all I want is someone to hold me, to   
tell me everything will be all right. But I lost that when I   
was twelve and the soft clicking sound of the trailer door   
behind you as you leave is the only voice in my world.  
  
Sylia  
The car door is open but I remain inside it, unsure as to   
whether to continue. I have seen worse places, I suppose.   
It's just that you do not live in them. Your house has   
always been something of an abstraction in my mind. A lot   
name, a number that I did not want to see fleshed into rust,   
scrap metal reflecting what little of the setting sun's light   
seeps through the abandoned high rises surrounding it. I step  
out of the vehicle and shut it behind me.   
  
Your door is not locked. Does not have a lock, a fact rather   
pointless to remedy when you are already packed, except for a   
wad of paper forlornly thrown on the floor. You suddenly   
transfer your gaze from it, to me. I purposely ignore you,   
noticing instead the cracks in the cement it lies on, another   
defect I would improve now that the chance is past. The   
object of my interest retrieved I study it carefully, noting   
with cool detachment that it could almost be seen as a symbol   
for your music career and its...partner....job. I do not   
wish to think what throwing it away might mean.   
  
I offer it to you, in a movement too like desperation for my   
liking, looking up at you for the first time. The heat of   
your anger has been almost tangible presence on my skin since   
I've entered, so I am surprised to see your red eyes rimmed   
with tears, your body held in a defensive, not antagonizing   
posture. I wait, nervous as a child on Christmas morning,   
remembering that she misbehaved the night before.   
  
You do not reject it. I, fool that I am, think for a moment   
that you will accept it. You turn away. Whispering in a   
cracked voice something I can not quite hear, its content not  
so important as its form, not nearly as important as the sobs   
that accompany it.   
  
I reach out, stroking my finger down your cheek. But only in   
my mind. I am too disciplined to do so in actuality. Or   
perhaps just too scared. Back outside the air is crisp and   
fresh, but all I notice is how cold it is. 


End file.
